guardian of her niece's pupil, and to permit nothing she could possibly disapprove; and Irene soon saw that her liberty of action would be more restrained than if she had remained at school. Besides this, her hostess's ideas of enjoyment and her own were very little in common.

Of Mr. Rivers she saw little, as he left for business immediately after breakfast, dined in town, and often did not return until late in the evening. He had spoken to her kindly the first day of her arrival, and hoped she would make herself at home; but having thus expressed his goodwill, he took very little further notice of her presence. He was a silent man, greatly engrossed by business, not naturally fond of children, and did not ordinarily bestow much more attention upon his own little daughter, Lettie, than upon Irene.

Miss Rivers was singularly unlike her brother in appearance, being small and neat in figure, with fair, clear complexion, soft wavy hair, and delicate, but inexpressive features. She considered herself, and was considered by her family, a young lady of very superior intellectual attainments, and formed one of a select circle of ladies who met at each other's houses for the purpose of mutual improvement, to be accomplished chiefly by essays prepared by the members, and read and discussed at these meetings. She had a retentive memory, well adapted for the storing of dates, quotations, isolated miscellaneous facts, and she took frequent opportunities of introducing into conversation these scraps of knowledge, often with an amazing disregard of appropriateness, but none the less to the admiration of her relatives and select friends.

That Hilda and Irene should coalesce was quite out of the question. And Miss Rivers, indeed, never thought of companionship with this child, necessarily as much her inferior in mind as in age, and she wasted very little thought or notice upon her. But Irene, on her part, closely observed Miss Rivers, and before the first day had passed had reached the conclusion that she was conceited, pedantic, and very stupid; although, of course, as usual, she must keep this opinion to herself.

Little Lettie warmly welcomed Irene, hoping to find in her a substitute for her sister Rose, absent on a long visit, and who was not, like Hilda, too learned to talk to her, read stories for her, and dress her dolls. Irene felt attracted towards the affectionate, simple child, and a fast friendship sprang up at once between them. The doll-dressing was not much of a success, and Irene greatly preferred telling her own stories to reading any from the little books that Lettie brought her; but Lettie was quite satisfied The doll could wait, she supposed, until Rose came home, and as for the stories it was much nicer to have new ones than old, and Miss Lauriston's stories were very pretty.

It was a serious disappointment to Irene to find that walking out by herself was one of the things her hostess considered unsuitable. She walked out occasionally with Mrs. and Miss Ingram, but in this she found no pleasure; she felt indeed, yet more restraint than when walking beside Emma Hart in the long line of school-girls.

Happily, however, Mrs. Rivers made no objection to her taking walks with her son; he would, she was sure, take all proper care of her, and John hastened to his office every morning before the usual moment, that he might leave punctually and have time for a walk with their little visitor during his dinner-hour.

And when with John she was quite happy. He went wherever she chose to go, would stand patiently, as long as she liked, at book or print-shop window; would make any number of turnings out of the way, starting up a hill, diving down a long descent of steep steps, stopping before old archway or on bridge, or turning into the ancient quiet of green graveyards, under tall churchtowers, in the very heart of the tumultuous city; pausing wherever might best he noted striking effects of dome and spire and gabledhouse.

And many such picturesque street-views there were in the unimproved Westhaven of those not very distant days.

"I don't know what I should do without you, John," Irene said, a few days after her arrival; "you do not mind my calling you John?" she asked, a little doubtfully.

"No; I like it. You seem just like another sister."

"Oh, I do really wish you were my brother; I like you so much. I like to look at you."

"Do you? I am very plain." John's want of beauty was an acknowledged fact, which he had accepted, though not unregretfully.

"Yes, you are, very;" said Irene, frankly. "said Irene, frankly. "No painter, I dare say, would chose you as a model for a young Apollo or a Paris of Troy. But for all that your face is better worth looking at than most-I don't mean than a nobly-beautiful countenance, like my father's, or that minister at Fox Street Chapel. I would much rather look at you, for instance, than at your sister Hilda." "That can hardly be true; Hilda is very pretty."

"But it is true," persisted Irene.

"And she is clever ; cleverer than I am; at least, I suppose so : John sometimes felt a doubt as to his sister's mental superiority, which, however, he tried to repress.

"No; that she is not," affirmed Irene, decisively. "Miss Rivers is not nearly so clever as she thinks herself. The fact is, John, she thinks too much of herself, and you think too little of yourself. I consider Miss Hilda exceedingly stupid."

"You must not say anything unkind of my sister," John said gently; "I ought not to listen to that."

"Then I won't, as you 'don't like it; of course, you ought not. But you see I can't help loving you and little Lettie a great deal better."

(To be continued.)

ANGELIQUE ARNAULD, ABBESS OF PORT ROYAL.

BY MARIE COMPSTON.

Now and again, at rare intervals, one comes across the record of a life of such exceeding beauty and sweetness that it completely takes possession of the soul. Such an impression does the life of Angélique Arnauld make upon the reader. She was a true Reformer, though all her life a devout daughter of the Church of Rome; but she was much more-a woman of noble intellect, of devout holiness, and of intense earnestness, entirely devoted to what she considered the cause of Christ.

Angélique Arnauld was the daughter of M. Arnauld, ProcureurGénéral to Catherine de Medicis, and of Catherine Arnauld, his wife, daughter of M. Marion, Avocat-Général. She was born in 1591, and her sister Agnes, whose life was closely connected with hers, in 1593. At the age of eleven, Angélique was appointed Abbess of Port-Royal. Even in those days of lax discipline, such a breach of ecclesiastical law would not have been allowed, but

M. Marion had great influence at court. He wished to provide for some of his daughter's numerous family, and by filling up false certificates of age, through the help of the French King he accomplished his purpose. At the same time, Agnes was appointed Abbess of St. Cyr, at the age of nine. The Arnauld family numbered twenty children, of whom, however, ten died young. The rest were all characterised, in a greater or less degree, by the same noble traits which distinguished Angélique. M. Arnauld, in his capacity of Procureur-Général, took part in the trial of Barrière for an attempt on the life of Henri IV. He made an eloquent speech, denouncing the Jesuits as instigators of the crime, and asking that they should be expelled from France. This was not done until nine years later, but to this action of M. Arnauld may be traced the hatred of the Jesuits to the family, and their subsequent persecution.

The two young abbesses were brought up together for a time at the Abbey of St. Cyr, but afterwards Angélique was removed to Maubuisson, where she remained until she entered upon her duties at Port Royal. For several years, her life here was a happy one. Her parents came every summer, with their family, to spend some months with her, and Agnes frequently came from her Abbey of St. Cyr. Many a merry game did the child abbesses have in the gardens and corridors of Port Royal. Once the King, Henri IV., honoured the convent with a visit, when Angélique went forth to meet him with all due solem nity, carrying her crozier in her hand, and mounted on pattens to increase her height. An amusing anecdote of her childish dignity belongs to this period. Hearing that a monk was in the habit of gossiping with the nuns in the sacristy, she repaired thither on one occasion, and quietly locked the offenders in. Returning, after a time, she opened the door, and liberated them with a suitable reprimand, given with all the gravity of a woman and an abbess.

But children cannot remain children, and Angélique gradually awoke to the uneasy conviction that she was not fulfilling the duties of her office as she ought, and with this came the other inevitable certainty that she was irrevocably doomed to a life which seemed very distasteful to her. The conflict lasted for some time, but at last, from a sense of duty to her parents, she determined to try to fill the post to the best of her ability. It was at this crisis that a Capuchin friar, Father Basil, preached at Port Royal on the example of our Saviour's humility and selfdenial. This was the turning-point in Angélique's spiritual history. Here was a new motive power more potent than any she had hitherto dreamt of. Henceforth, our Lord's life was the model she strove to imitate, and her one absorbing desire was to bring first her own life, and then those of others, into closer con

formity with His. Doubtless in many things she was mistaken; but every true Christian must admire the singleness of purpose that marked the whole of her self-denying career.

Like all real reformers, Angélique felt that her first care must be to reform her own life, and to render strict obedience to the rules of her order. The most important of these were the vows of poverty and of silence. No nun might call anything her own-all belonged to the common fund. Silence was rigidly enforced during the greater part of the day, and was a virtue sedulously cultivated at all times by the more devout. One sister is said to have spent seven weeks during Lent in the kitchen, where the rest were continually coming and going, without opening her lips. Angélique's fasts and vigils were now so protracted as to induce a serious illness, which necessitated her removal to Andilly, the

summer residence of her parents. But her resolution remained unshaken, and as soon as she returned to Port Royal the reformation of the Abbey was the task she took in hand. Here, however, she met with difficulties that would have daunted a less determined woman. The nuns did not see the necessity for any change; but Angélique possessed the rare combination of zeal and tact, ardour and caution, which, when combined, render their possessor irresistible. Her sweetness and humility so disarmed the prejudices of the sisters, that they voluntarily declared themselves ready to aid her in any plans she might propose.

The first duty which the Abbess asked from them was the fulfilment of their vow of poverty, and a day was fixed on which each one brought all her belongings to the common fund. One sister alone kept back the key of a little garden, in which she allowed no one else to walk. Angélique said nothing, but waited patiently, and in a week the sister sent the key in a letter. From this time there was perfect harmony among the nuns of Port Royal, each seeming to vie with the other in the conscientious performance of the duties of the order. A harder struggle was before Angélique in enforcing the strict seclusion of the nuns which the rules required, for it involved the exclusion of her own family. How could she refuse to admit her father? The difficulty was peculiarly perplexing, but once assured that she was right, Angélique would never turn back, cost what it might. She wrote to her sister, asking her to explain the whole circumstances to her parents, and entreat them not to be offended if she should receive them, as she did other visitors, in the parlour. This letter was witheld from M. Arnauld, because every one in the family supposed that when the crisis came, Angélique would yield.

At last the usual visit of the Arnaulds was announced, and all within the convent waited on the tip-toe of expectation for the painful coming contest, while Angélique nerved herself by prayer for the duty before her. When M. Arnauld arrived he was requested to enter the parlour outside the Abbey, provided for visitors. In great wrath he demanded, in loud tones, admission to the Abbey itself, which Angélique firmly refused. Some of the nuns sympathised with the family, and would have admitted them by stealth, but Angélique had all the keys in her possession. Finally M. Arnauld consented to enter the parlour. Changing his tactics, he then spoke kindly to his daughter, and assured her that her welfare was his chief concern. Poor Angélique, who had not quailed before his anger, or the reproaches of her mother and brother, was now quite unnerved, and fell back fainting. M. Arnauld, in deep distress, called the nuns to her aid, and when she recovered, acquiesced in her decision, and promised not to interfere